The Fourth Queen, page 8
She could sense Naseem growing impatient at her side and looked again. Then she saw the mountains: towering peaks filling the far horizon, with their upper slopes laden with snow. And behind them, more mountains, higher still, like great waves capped with white foam, rearing up silently toward the moon.
She sat back on her heels and turned to Naseem. “House?” she asked, using one of the words she'd learned earlier. Naseem nodded with tears on her cheeks, and clasped her hands again to her heart. So that was why she'd tried to run away. She'd seen the mountains in the distance and she wanted to go home. She knew it was her last chance before they reached their destination.
Helen shivered suddenly and understood. This mysterious place they were going to, with all its comfort and wealth: once they were there, there would be no escape.
Chapter 14
En route, July 10, 1769
HER NAME IS HELEN! I DISCOVERED THIS AT SUPPER THIS EVENING. It means “bright” in the Greek, if I'm not mistaken; which could scarcely have been apter, for her face glimmered like porcelain in the lamplight, her hair glinting like garfish beside the seaweed tresses of the rest.
The lassies were all suffused with silliness, gurgling like fleshy fountains, after I had announced we would be arriving at Marrakech on the morrow. And they were teaching her some Moorish words, stubbing their fingers at one another, pronouncing “Fatima,” “Maryam,” “Ayesha” and the like, naming each one, then squealing and throwing up their hands when she imitated them.
Thus they extracted her name (to the delight of my straining ears), then exchanged further fripperies, regarding fathers and houses, et cetera. And then something very odd happened. As if in answer to my prayer, the guileless wenches then proceeded to extract, with ardor and smiles, that which might otherwise have been wrung out of her by Torture: namely, a declaration of the Mohammedan Faith. For I think I have already mentioned the disgust with which your Moor contemplates Les Infidels, such that he will greet a scabrous slave with cordiality (as a fellow Mohammedan) but will whisk past a bejeweled Jewish merchant with his head distastefully averted.
Yet if that same Jewish merchant were to fling off his blue cap and utter a few crucial words of belief, a rolled prayer mat would be immediately thrust under his arm, and he'd be spun around tout de suite until his beak faced due East, and urged to pray with his fellow Believers. Upon my soul, a man may embrace this promiscuous Faith as quickly as he may divorce his wife—nay, quicker, for the wife must be repudiated three times, whereas a man need only declare for Allah but once and they are joined.
Helen was ignorant of the import of her declaration, of course. But this Allah is not wont to quibble on such matters. Thus the lass has been spared the pang of denying her Christianity, and I may present her to the Emperor in the secure knowledge that she has been wedded to his God.
The irony of all this is that, though we have discovered her name, we shall all now be forced to forget it. For each new convert must be rebaptized with a Mohammedan handle. There are but a scant few to choose from, malheureusement, which causes a deal of confusion, especially among the Emperor's slaves, who are named en masse according to their year of purchase, rather as your fine claret might be labeled with its date of vintage.
But now it's no longer moot, I'm left wondering whether Helen would have clung to her Faith. Faced four years ago with the selfsame dilemma, I spoke my denial of Our Good Lord without a second's hesitation, comfortable in the knowledge of His Almighty capacity for Empathy. Thus did I avoid a most uncomfortable grilling, tied to a spit and rotisseried like a marinated grouse.
An act of cowardice, you say? Yet the Keys to the Kingdom of Heaven are brandished by just such a yellow-belly as I. For wasn't Saint Peter the most abject of all cowards, who, when mildly questioned by a Roman thug, divorced his Lord not once, but three times?
I have been likewise rewarded for my cowardice. For is not the Harem a veritable micro-Heaven? And do I not carry the keys to this Heaven on my belt? So when we meet, Saint Peter and I, on some soft future cloud, he will wink and invite me in for a game of whist, to the vexation of those fools who suffered more for their Faith. For I feel sure our Good Shepherd does not take kindly to martyrs and looks on their sacrifice as a mockery of His gift of Life. Thus to choose Death is not evidence of a brave Faith but none other than overweening Obstinacy.
Our Young Queen, Douvia, is a precise case in point. Though but ten years old when she was captured off a Spanish ship, she refused to surrender up her Popish rosary beads. I can picture her now: braced back on her haunches and snarling like a kitten, with her tiny nostrils flared and her mantilla all askew. They had to break her fingers, one by one, to remove the ivory beads, then pluck every hair from her scalp, before she would consent to utter a grudging allegiance to Allah.
In case you are wondering, I am not in favor of Torture, though my position forces me to exercise some discipline in the Harem. For my first six months this was unnecessary, for the echoes of my predecessor's severity continued to ricochet down the corridors long after he was unaccountably skewered in the heart by a shawerma kabab. Since I took over, I have relied more on Disfigurement than Excruciation, having noted the torments women are prepared to endure for Beauty's sake. Thus I might singe a miscreant's fringe or shave her eyebrows; stain her breasts or her cheeks with green dye. Many's the time I've had them begging on their knees for a sound flogging, even offering to fetch the strap or the chabouk themselves, to avert the ignominy of a cochinealed neb.
And yet there are occasions when a drubbing is desirable, as with a foolish Berber lass this evening. I had foreseen that she might prove a handful, from the scratches on the cheeks of the brawny kinsmen who sold her. Indeed Berber females are generally reputed to be fiery, like wild vixens in their remote mountain homes. Though Mohammedan, like their Lowland sisters, Berber wenches go unveiled, for there are few to see them leaping with their goats through the tumbled peaks. With their tattooed faces and powerful thighs, they are renowned for their passion in Love—which is why we purchased this unfortunate wench, reasoning that my Master would relish a wee dash of carnal cayenne.
Well, just as we are all congratulating ourselves on Helen's conversion, up this idiot lass jumps and skedaddles toward the door. The attempt was doomed, of course: Lungile caught her up in a trice and bundled her off to our room. And there, on my instructions, laid about the soles of her feet with a cat-o'-five, thus concentrating her heat most precisely in that portion of her anatomy that would flee.
Poor Lungile! He seemed quite dejected afterward, sitting in the corner and clutching his great knees. He is unpracticed at this, vous comprenez, and the shock of his unmanning has left him prey to fierce attacks of sweating, such as mature women experience when their wombs close, which soak through his salwars and drip down into his slippers so that they squelch and squeak as he walks.
So comes he in after administering said drubbing, and slumps heavily on the divan, opening his giant's hands and staring moodily into those strange yellow palms the dark-skinned Negroes have.
“What kind of man is it,” sighs he, wringing out the sodden hem of his kamise, “whose sole duty is the discipline of another man's wife?” and hangs his shaved head, and groans; for the answer, of course, is a eunuch, who is man no longer.
So now we have a hangdog eunuch to return to the Emperor, as well as the lame Berber besom I have mentioned—plus a duo of limp Bagandan bonnies, which we acquired for their legendary agility d'amour (embellished, so I am informed, by extraordinary crenellate labia, about which the Emperor had expressed a most fervent curiosity). But Malia says they are ailing, having aroused the curiosity of numerous minor chieftains en route to the merchant who sold them to us. She has tended them carefully, of course, and embarked them on the usual fattening regime, but they are still as flat and sad as two lugworms in a tin and have yet to regain their native gloss.
So I must confess to a slight nervousness about our reception at the palace tomorrow. For, though I have observed the Emperor's predilections for four years, I fear I may be as ignorant of the subtleties of his taste as I am of the precise measurements of the Royal Slippers. And herein lies the source of my anxiety, for few things try the temper as sorely as ill-fitting footwear, and should these pretty shoes chafe up a Royal Blister, I shall be the first to feel the kick of the Emperor's Wrath.
Chapter 15
IF HELEN HADN'T KNOWN THEY WERE ARRIVING somewhere important, the change in the road they were following would have told her. Where there had been three or four narrow tracks, crisscrossing one another like a braid, now when she peered out through her haik, a wide brown road stretched ahead.
They began passing herds of goats and longhorn cattle tended by tall men with shaved heads and long plaits, stalls with reed awnings selling water and fruit. In front and behind her the other lasses started jabbering and calling to one another. Her arms ached with holding the tiny slit open. There were two more of those monstrous great yellow horses, heaped with rolled-up carpets; a young man riding in a cart pulled by two black-skinned women, naked to the waist. Mules and dogs, barefoot bairns with shaven scalps. Why were some women covered and others shamefully displayed? What disease was it that made so many shave their heads?
Then there it was in the distance. Backed by snow-capped mountains and fringed by those strange trees that looked like ferns, was a red-walled city. Then she saw that there were actually two cities: one huge and sprawling, surrounded by clusters of brown tents and grazing herds, and a smaller, neater, walled city about half a mile to the east.
As they turned off toward the smaller city, she began to glimpse details. A sea of white tents to one side; green-tiled towers protruding above the thirty-foot walls; red-gowned figures trotting in formation on golden horses. Then they were there, and the gates were opening.
After that everything was a blur. The other lassies started barging forward and her mule broke into a ragged canter, nearly unseating her. Grabbing a tuft of mane and clutching her haik around her, she careered blindly with the others for at least five furlongs until they all came to a chaotic milling standstill somewhere inside.
Dismounted and ushered through more gates, suddenly everyone was flinging off their haiks. At last she could see. There, a bonny fountain and patterned tiles on the walls; green roofs that sparkled in the sun; arches and covered walkways; carved wood, flowers—and women, everywhere she looked, in the brightest clothes she'd ever seen.
Perhaps that's why there were two cities; one for men and this smaller one for the women. It was too big, surely, to be the house they were going to? Now they were being chivied across a series of sunny courtyards, with fat lasses staring from every window and doorway. And overhead, were those washing lines? Not sagging and dripping with gray and brown like in Scotland, but billowing up in great gauzy sails of turquoise, yellow, pink.
There was no time to take it all in. She was tripping over her slippers—why were they being hurried so fast? At last they arrived at a group of half-empty courtyards, where she was allocated a little white-walled room. Moments later a wee slave girl appeared with a bowl of water, soap, and a chamber pot; and back again with a comb and mirror and a set of clean clothes.
She knelt respectfully in front of Helen, then tugged urgently on her arm. She must wash and change quickly, the gesture said. Someone, or something, was waiting for her.
THE BLOUSE WAS PALE GREEN SILK, down to her knees, finer than anything she'd been given to wear on the journey. There were darker green breeks to go with it and an embroidered waistcoat. Helen washed quickly and put them on, then dragged the comb through her hair.
Picking up a little pot of rouge, she looked around for the mirror. She'd never worn color on her cheeks before and she wasn't sure how to apply it. There was kohl there, too—another mystery—and a little brush. But there was no time to try either: the Dwarf was outside summoning them all into the courtyard.
A few minutes later they were in a bonny garden, shaded with bowers of honeysuckle and roses and some great froths of purple flowers she'd never seen before. The Dwarf-man was trotting up and down trying to arrange the lassies in a line, but they kept giggling and clumping together. Then suddenly they were all on tiptoe and craning their necks in the same direction. Helen followed their gaze and saw a tall, white-gowned figure sauntering toward them, followed by a slave holding a wide green umbrella.
Was this the man they'd been brought all this way for? She hardly dared look. What if he was deformed or pockmarked? How would she endure it?
He was moving slowly down the line, greeting each of the lassies. Helen felt a trickle of sweat between her shoulder blades. The girl beside her started whimpering quietly with excitement. The man's head was shaved, she could see that much, and his skin was the color of Highland whiskey. She could hear him talking; his voice was deep and even. Then he laughed, throwing his head back, and she glimpsed a black beard. As he came nearer, she could see he was about her father's age, with creases on his forehead and around his eyes.
Then he was talking to the lassie next to her, taking her by the hand. Jesus God, he wanted her to take off her waistcoat. You could see her big breasts clearly through the flimsy silk of her blouse. Wasn't she embarrassed? Helen stared at the lassie's face, but she was smiling and thrusting her chest forward, brazen as you like.
And now it was her turn. He was standing in front of her. She met his eyes briefly, then looked down. His feet were in green leather slippers; there was a dusting of pollen near the hem of his gown; she could smell mint and soap. Blood thudded in her ears, blocking all sound, as he touched her chin and tipped her face up toward him.
Chapter 16
Marrakech, July 11, 1769
DEAR GOD, WHAT A DAY IT HAS BEEN! I AM QUITE WORN OUT from managing all these women: flopped on my divan like an old gray-muzzled sheepdog. The moment they glimpsed the palace in the distance, it was all we could do to prevent them heeling their mules into a gallop. The eunuchs managed to restrain them to a trot, by dint of some deft barging, but it was a most disorderly Caravan which broached the palace gates, with them all squawking and flapping under their haiks, like fifty sacks of live chickens.
So we dismount them and take them to the Harem, and begin distributing them to their various rooms. Then word comes that the Emperor is anxious to view his new acquisitions. So we must gather them all together again, prizing combs and kohl brushes from their flustered hands, and shepherd them out into the main garden where he is waiting.
Of course I am on tenterhooks as to how he will react to Helen, whom I have positioned at the end of the line (much as your good host serves up his finest Cognac at the end of the banquet). And when he sees her, his eyes narrow in an expression I have come to recognize in him, a look far stronger than Lust: of a connoisseur contemplating some rarity. And lifts her hand delicately to his lips, and coils a copper ringlet gloatingly around his finger. Then nods to the Crone to prepare her.
Then he bows to them all, with that flourish he copied from the Spanish Ambassador.
“You have read me well,” says he, turning toward me. And I feel an unaccustomed blush of pleasure chafe my cheeks, like a wee laddie praised by his father (for the Emperor is the most exacting of men and is normally quite stinting in his commendations). “I had feared your northern tastes might have prevailed,” he continues, plucking the jeweled pin from his turban and giving it to me. “But you have learned to appreciate women like a true Moor.”
He then sweeps off in one direction, while Helen is borne off in another to endure that succession of procedures that are deemed necessary to ready a woman for His Majesty's bed. Leaving me surrounded by gushing virgins, like a wee cork bobbing in the froth of a turning tide, while they prattle on about the Emperor: his charm and distinguished bearing, his fine eyes, noble mouth, and the like. Until suddenly I am utterly extinguished, and stand there staring at the gaudy bauble in my hand (an uncut emerald from some obsequious sheikh) and all I can think of are her green eyes looking up at him through trembling pale lashes.
SEVEN O'CLOCK: SHE MUST BE with him now. This damned palace is full of clocks, all ticking away, the only machines in this Godforsaken country. Tick-tock, stuttering out the minutes. Have his musicians performed yet, I wonder? Or was he too impatient to endure them? Sometimes he sends them all away, and his tasters too, and leaves his tajines and fruit bowls untouched.
I should have known he would choose her—what man would not? But so soon? I had thought perhaps the Berber first. Or that tall Hottentot from the Timbuktu trader.
Batoom came in just now, trailing muslin and jasmine flowers, with a flagon of illicit date wine. I pretended a distemper got on the journey and she stoops tenderly and kisses my brow, letting the muslin gape open, and offering to fetch Malia for me. I keep the flagon, but I want none of her, none of any of them.
How many hours will he keep her? I had not expected this excess of feeling—for have I not always lost what I have loved? Is that not the chief lesson of my stunted life? She is his: every curl, every eyelash. And I am his Pimp, with his emerald, my Pimp's wages, in my pocket.
Chapter 17
MALIA TOUCHED HELEN'S CHEEK BRIEFLY, THENshuffled back out through the big double doors and locked them carefully behind her. Helen heard her murmuring something to the giants standing guard outside, then the shush-shush of her red slippers retreating slowly down the long dark corridor.
She sat still, not daring to move, just as the old woman had arranged her: leaning sideways against a mound of silk pillows. It was very quiet, only the fountain bubbling in the courtyard in front of her, the whirr and flick of soft moths around the oil lamps. She must be miles from the women's quarters, but Malia had rushed her so urgently through the shadowy cloisters that she'd lost all sense of direction.
